


Irrational Weather

by murron



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2009-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:57:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murron/pseuds/murron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe they didn't work without the threat of potential death in the mix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers**: Season 3, _The Return, Part I &amp; II_

Had we but world enough, and time.  
_Andrew Marvel_

My father said if you could spend three weeks  
in a wet tent with a man without killing him  
or having him kill you then he was a good man.  
_Margaret Atwood_

  
**Zero **

  
John watched the control room from the shadow of a pillar. Up on the balcony, Elizabeth was talking to General O'Neill. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could guess the gist of their conversation.

The question whether they were allowed to keep Atlantis was weighing on his mind, too.

John looked over to his team. They were sitting on the gate-room stairs, Richard Woolsey in their midst. Rodney and Ronon sat as close as any two war buddies John had ever seen. It was surprising, but they finally seemed at ease with each other's company.

Carson had begged some MREs off the Daedalus and Woolsey was busy wolfing down a sandwich the size of his head. Teyla said something and their collective laughter echoed through the tower.

John wouldn't mind staying in the city without any break. The marines could ferry his stuff through the gate. He hadn't unpacked that much, anyway.

Unfortunately, they would have to return to Earth first, no matter what. John tried to imagine their homecoming. Applause and champagne in the gate room. Standing ovations. Landry clapping him on the back and congratulating him on a job well done.

Somehow, he doubted that was likely.

**One **

  
It was the archetypal log house: dirt driveway, witchgrass growing under the porch, blind windows and fieldstone chimney. Dark woods huddled in from all sides; branches stripped clean by October winds. John looked up at the grey clouds above the roof and thought, _this is it_.

Never once had he thought a cabin out in the sticks would signal the end of his career. That's how it went. Life was full of surprises. John shouldered his duffel bag and walked up to the front door. A new lock had been fitted into the warped wood and the key turned without resistance.

Crossing the threshold, John entered a tiny foyer, packed with a coat rail and boot rack. The place hadn't been aired in a while and smelled of wet clothes. Cobwebs dangled from the doorframe.

Cosy.

John moved slowly into the main-room. Threadbare rug, antique arms above the fireplace. Only the hunting trophies were missing. John imagined decapitated deer staring down at him with glass-eyes and grimaced. Looking around half-heartedly, he inspected the dark bedrooms and narrow kitchen. He bent across the sink and pushed open a window. The smell of rotting leaves and pond water rolled into the room.

John stepped back from the sink with a sigh. Some kind of retreat this was. O'Neill's cabin seemed plain and cramped compared to . . . other places he had been. The leaden sky and looming pines didn't help.

He considered relocating to a sunnier climate, somewhere with a beach and quality breakers. The idea of rolling waves was tempting, but in truth he didn't have the energy to go through with it. He recalled the road up into the hills, isolated houses, mud tracks and faded yellow lines on the tarmac. The ocean seemed impossibly far away. Besides, his surfboard was still at the BOQ in Colorado. As was the rest of his stuff. He really didn't want to go back for any of it. _Fly under the radar for a while_. Well, that was the plan.

John ran a hand through his hair. He couldn't imagine staying here; he'd choke on the peace and quiet. Already the rustic flair and sedate colours were settling like a layer of dust in his lungs. Staring at the cold fireplace, he didn't know where else to go.

Just as he dumped his bag on the couch, he heard the sound of tires on gravel outside the open window. That was weird. It couldn't be a passing car, the lane ended at the lodge. Maybe someone got lost. Maybe not. Frowning, John stepped out on the porch to see who it was.

A green Sedan pulled up in the driveway and rolled to a stop, lights winking out. The driver's door opened as John stepped out onto the porch.

"Oh my God," Rodney exclaimed, "It's Davey Crocket meets Airwolf."

In the murky twilight Rodney looked like he'd stepped out of an old postcard, everything about and around him was tinged in pale sepia. Car keys dangling from his hand, he stared from cabin to meadow and back at the road. "Oh my god," he said. "This really is the end of the world."

John peeked into the Sedan's passenger side, expecting Elizabeth or maybe Carson. The car was empty, though. He looked back at Rodney who was still gaping at the scenery with an incredulous frown.

"Does it even have electricity?"

John found his voice. "I'll pass on the compliment."

Rodney huffed. "Remind me to book my own exile in advance," he said and banged the driver's door shut. Dressed in jeans and a khaki parka, he didn't look like he was just passing through. John left the porch and strolled over to the car.

"So, you're all set up yet?" Rodney asked.

"Not really," John answered. "I just arrived." He put a hand on the Sedan's sideview mirror, dragged a thumb over the pebbled edge. The rental sticker was flaking from the windshield. _Why are you here? _ He couldn't ask.

From his place by the car, John shot Rodney a sideways glance. For a moment, he recalled the hours after the counter-strike, the time of coming undone. Images of the mess hall, dim lights, Rodney flashing a tired smile, looking proud. They'd done good.

"They must be really pissed to banish you this far out," Rodney remarked.

John looked back over his shoulders and made a face. That's what you got for disobeying orders. Soar high, come down hard. Out loud he said, "It could be worse."

"They should be grateful."

"That's not how it works."

Rodney lifted an eyebrow. "Render unto Caesar and all that."

John shrugged. "It's a gesture."

"That's what Elizabeth said."

John stared at his boots. The last time he'd seen Elizabeth was after the debriefing. She'd greeted him with a hard smile, sat down at his side, made a point of showing her integrity. The successful recovery of Atlantis had returned her confidence. Going by Woolsey's harassed looks, she'd recovered her fighting spirit, too. John pitied any who went up against her. _They have to slap our fingers or lose face. You know how it works. _ Did he ever. And if _they_ decided to pick a scapegoat, he knew it wouldn't be her. Unlike others, Elizabeth wasn't easy to replace.

"How is she?" he asked.

"Drowned in crosswords," Rodney said, flapped a hand. "She's doing okay, I guess. She expects the IOA to put her back in business before the end of the month."

John wasn't surprised. "They'd be stupid not to."

"Her words exactly."

"What about you?" John asked. "You're here to share my misery?"

"Unfortunately."

"Are you serious?"

"What, were you expecting someone else?" It was meant to sound light, John could tell. Rodney's eyes gave him away, though. John suppressed a grin. Drama lessons, his ass.

"No."

"Good. You have to give me a hand." Rodney moved to the back of the Sedan and opened the rear. John joined him and saw the trunk was stuffed with bags full of food. White bread, peanut butter, pears sealed in plastic, cereals . . . and that was just the upper layer.

"How many countries do you plan to feed?" John asked, perplexed.

"Precaution," Rodney said. "It's not like there's a Safeway around."

"Good point," John admitted. His own supplies were limited to three bags of chips and a sixpack. He lifted one of the bags out of the car and spotted two cans of ravioli in tomato sauce. Classic. They carried Rodney's groceries to the door, passing two weathered deck chairs on the porch. Someone had forgotten to remove the cushions and the off-white linen was stained.

"Honestly now," Rodney said. "Does it have electricity?"

  
* * *

  
They lugged the supplies into the kitchenette and started sorting them into shelves. John pushed two cans of soup to the back of a cupboard and took a bag of Cheerios from Rodney.

"How did you find me, anyway?" he asked.

Rodney shrugged. "Carter."

"The SGC just let you go?"

"Oh, you know, I said I'd go on strike until they put you back on duty."

John stiffened, nearly dropped the chips. "Tell me you didn't."

Rodney's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. "I asked for leave," he said. "After I worked two and a half years without a day off, they could hardly object."

"Did you tell them where you'd go?"

"Sure, I put a note on the intranet," Rodney scoffed. "What did you think?" He turned and glared at John. "If you want me to leave, just say so."

"No!" The bag in his hands crackled as he put it on the counter. "Jesus, Rodney." He was about to say more, then thought better of it. He could justify himself, but any explanation would sound like an insult. He didn't want that. It wasn't like they needed the confrontation. They knew the stakes, had known them from the start. Being back on Earth shouldn't make a difference.

Seconds passed. The silence stretched, turned oppressive.

"It's not a good time for me," John said finally.

"I know that."

"Okay."

"Good."

They continued unpacking and John thought they'd moved on when Rodney muttered, "You'd go nuts if you stayed out here alone." He'd mumbled so badly, John barely caught the words. He understood, though, and it surprised him. Looking at Rodney sideways, he watched him fold one paper bag and reach for another.

Sometimes he didn't get Rodney at all. Not that he'd want to, hell, no. John liked to keep things simple and that included a safe distance between him and his fellow human beings. If he didn't examine people too closely, they left him alone, as well. He respected a good front, mainly because he was protected by his own. Or he used to be.

Next to him, Rodney had emptied the last bag and held out the butter. "Earth to Sheppard," he said in his finger-snapping voice. "Stop staring and put this in the fridge."

John took the butter, frowned. "Butter doesn't go in the fridge."

"'Course it does."

"Maybe in Canada."

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

  
* * *

  
The trail was soft and springy underfoot. Sweat trickled down his back and he was sweltering inside his sweatshirt. Running felt good, though. So did the fresh air. For the first time, John was glad he'd come up here. It did beat the alternative. He could only take so much of Cheyenne Mountain before clawing at the walls.

He'd slept hard that night, the soporific effect of fresh air and a long drive unfailing. When he woke too early in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by anonymous darkness, he fell into Atlantean routine without thinking. He tiptoed through the main-room, collecting clothes and shoes on the way. When he left the cabin, sunrise was little more than a paling of sky. He'd picked a path that curved away from the pond and set off at an easy pace.

Like Teyla had taught him, John focused on his breathing, his pulse, the rhythm of his run. All other thoughts tuned out. It was liberating. The woods smelled of last night's rain, a clean tang of pine and moss. Wild cranberries glistened wet on the ground. No plane tracks on the sky, no houses or streets. No noise. The wilderness could have been any planet.

In time, the footpath returned to the edge of the forest and showed glimpses of the clearing. Out on the meadow, the air had thickened into white mist.

It started to drizzle when the cabin came in sight. John reached the driveway and crossed it quickly. Within seconds, his face was damp and cold. He climbed the steps to the porch and slipped in through the front door.

Inside, a couple of lamps had been lit and the electric heater was running. The cabin was filled with the smell of coffee and burnt toast. Entering the main-room, John saw that Rodney had made himself at home. Discs covered the couch table, a backpack spilled cables and wires. Rodney slouched on the sofa, laptop on his knees and a mug within reach. He still looked rumpled and ungroomed, hair sticking up at the back of his head.

"Morning," John greeted. Rodney muttered something obscure in response. Used to pre-eleven taciturnity, John didn't mind the lack of attention. As he walked across the room, he peeled the sweater up over his t-shirt. Halfway out of the sweater, Rodney's shout, "Don't step on that," stopped him dead in his tracks.

Hands clutching the sweatshirt's hem, John stared down at the paper-stack in front of his running shoes. Similar piles covered the floor all around. Like molehills. Notes, John assumed. Between Rodney's scribble he could make out some equations that looked familiar.

A day without work was clearly an unknown concept to Rodney McKay. He'd probably snort at the very idea of vacation. John grinned. He could just picture it: A Caribbean holiday resort, sparkling pool, cocktail bar, sundeck – and the first thing Rodney would ask is did they have wireless LAN.

Slipping all the way out of his sweatshirt, John stepped across the paper trail and made it into the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water and drank it down in one go.

A plate sat on the counter, on it a half-eaten piece of toast. A jar of strawberry jam stood next to the sink, used spoon balanced on the lid. The coffee machine was on but the pot was empty.

John started changing filters, refilling the machine, dumping the dregs. Water sloshed from the tap into the glass pot and John watched it swirl. He hadn't done anything like this in three years. Coffee in Atlantis was ferried out from the kitchen, armies of thermos flasks disappearing into the labs. A private coffee machine was about as elusive as the Holy Grail. In their first year, card games decided who got an extra mug. They had their own cult. Caffeine was the deity, Starbucks a fast fading memory. It wasn't so bad, after a while. Coming to terms with separation from home, the expedition had embraced their isolation.

They had changed. The Cheyenne crew still stared at Pegasus veterans like they'd brought something alien back with them. Dr. Biro, who'd stayed with the SGC, once said she felt like Johnny Depp in the Astronaut's Wife. Her expression when she said it was wry, disdainful. Around then, John started to realise how far apart they'd moved from Earth.

The coffee pot was long full, water spilling over the rim and John's wrist. He quickly turned off the tap, finished his preparations and stepped away from the counter. A gurgle issued from the back of the machine and a new waft of mocha-smell spread throughout the room. As if on cue, Rodney shifted on the couch, pushed some disks to the floor, cursed. John used his sweater to wipe his face, then made his way to the shower.

  
* * *

  
The rain intensified around midday. Noon passed, the wind picked up and chased sheets of water across the pond. Reeds were lost into the haze, the jetty blurred. Drops spattered against the kitchen window.

Determined to make the best of it, John and Rodney watched a movie and cooked lunch from cans. O'Neill's chessboard was missing a queen and a tower, so chess was not an option. In the end, they worked on jumper schematics, compared results, quarrelled, made more coffee. When evening came around, they were on the couch again, heater humming in the back of the room.

Rodney was bent over a dissertation sent to him for its 'interesting theory' on wormholes. The SGC was always out for fresh blood, scouting the crop of international universities. When he was available, they got Rodney to evaluate their finds. His drooping mouth signalled his enthusiasm.

John had brought some work himself, half-finished reports from his brief time at the Mountain. You'd think that being under suspension would free you from paperwork, but no. He leafed through the notes, made no big effort to concentrate. At the other end of the sofa, Rodney turned a page of the script. "Crap. Crap. Oh, wait, there, more crap!" John watched him flourish the text-marker.

Rodney had his feet on the couch and a pillow at his back. Despite the unwanted work, he looked comfortable. In fact, John hadn't seen him that relaxed in a great long while. He'd put on a grey pullover, sleeves too wide and sagging at the elbows. Without doubt, he was wearing one of his faded t-shirts underneath. Complete with wisecrack slogan. For some insane reason, John was drawn by those shirts. Worn-out, soft cotton, warmed by body-heat, bunched up in his fist, a smooth layer between his hand and Rodney's stomach.

Clothes shouldn't fascinate like that. John turned aside, hoping Rodney had not noticed him staring.

They'd been in and out of each other's beds for half a year now. It was a bad idea for many reasons, but they had chosen to ignore the risks. Or maybe 'chosen' was the wrong word. There never really was a decision, they just . . . went along. Their thing, whatever it was, was subtitled 'no comment'. Which suited John just fine.

He'd never been good with one-on-one talks, spelling out gratefulness, regrets or other such things. Neither was Rodney and that was fine, too. So far there'd been no need for analysis, more to the point, no chance. They had their hands full with saving everyone's necks at the eleventh hour and in the short time salvaged in between, wordless physicality sufficed. They were good at that. In combination. Surprisingly.

After the exodus, sex had ceased. John didn't mind all that much. Frankly, he'd put it out of his head. Too much going on with the mutiny and all. Being together this side of the wormhole had gone as far as a dinner where they had pushed peas around their plates and felt watched from all sides. Nothing John wanted to repeat now or ever. He didn't do awkwardness. No, better to keep their hands off as long as they stayed on Earth. It was far less complicated. If he was allowed back to Atlantis, he assumed they'd go on as before. Of course, there was always the possibility of reassignment.

There was a catch, wasn't there?

John reached down and picked up his beer. It had warmed to room temperature and tasted terrible, but it was distracting. Or it should be. He'd need more than one bottle to force his thoughts from the track they were following.

Rodney would return to Atlantis, no doubt. After all, someone had to fix that stardrive. John's own position was a little more shaky. As a rule, stealing a military craft, attacking your own men and hanging up on the Major General didn't go down well with the brass.

They hadn't demoted him yet. There'd been a sort of unofficial disciplinary hearing, but no verdict. Basically he had been told to keep a low profile until they came to a decision. Admittedly, waiting would be easier if he'd any idea how the chips would fall. It was hard to guess, though. Could be good, could be bad. O'Neill's assessment echoed in John's head.

_I'll be honest Sheppard, you pulled quite the stunt. Hell, I was impressed. But . . . _

But. That was what it came down to. It always did.

John swirled the beer inside the bottle. He knew if he continued like this, he'd be choking on his speculations before the night was out. That was why he avoided boredom like the plague. It left too much room for thinking.

Sliding down deeper into the sofa's cushions, John felt the corduroy upholstery rasp against his shirt. He tried to come up with something to do, recalled the cold fireplace and thought, why not. Making a fire would at least busy his hands.

He put down his beer and got up. Tossing the report on the table, he crossed the room and stepped into the foyer. He'd no idea where O'Neill kept his firewood, but the shed next to the cabin seemed as good a bet as any. Stepping over Rodney's boots, John reached out and opened the door to a squall of humid air. With no wall in the way, the downpour's roar was deafening.

John imagined running across the waterlogged driveway. Stumbling into a pitchblack shed. Returning with an arm full of mouldy logs. Getting soaked.

He decided it wasn't worth the trouble.

Closing the door, John shut out the storm. At once, the air inside the cabin seemed close and stifling.

Now what?

Not for the first time John thought he should just pack up and go. Keep moving. Drive . . . anywhere. And if the SGC didn't already doubt his reliability, they sure would then.

Suddenly tired, John turned and leaned against the wall that partitioned foyer from main room.

Why should he even give a damn about his post anyway? Transfer wasn't new. In the past, he'd been content to let himself be moved. Stay or leave, as long as he could fly, he didn't care one way or the other.

He'd lived on no less than four continents in his time. Each of them he left without regret. In the end, there always came a day when the places he stayed didn't matter anymore. Foreign countries lost their shine and home was always temporary. Replaceable. The more he'd gotten around, the more John realised that each place was basically the same. Same troubles, same limitations. Not much variety between people, either.

Sure enough, he would have continued believing this, if not . . .

Yeah. If not.

Listening to the muffled sound of pelting rain, John remembered his first year in Pegasus.

By all rights, Atlantis should have been just like Earth. Distance made no difference, no matter how far they ventured, SG explorers imported homegrown rules and expectations. There were guidelines for the recon of uncharted territory. How could any world be new if you came to it so heavily prejudiced?

John twisted his mouth into a thin smile. Too bad these guidelines were useless.

Sure as hell, from the moment the expedition had arrived in Pegasus, anything that could go wrong, did go wrong. They'd managed to exile Teyla's people, lose their CO and wake the scourge of the galaxy all inside of a week. It was all less structured, less straightforward after that. Earth standards didn't apply. The benchmarks improvised in their stead were sketchy, born from a make-do mentality. Changes spread down to the level of human affairs in no time. Amazing how fast the line between work and private life had blurred.

Even now, John thought he should have been immune. It was one of his early lessons: Never grow attached, or if you did, never give yourself away. Hell. He'd been resolved to stick to his rules.

As with so many things, his resolve had been worth shit.

John touched the partition, felt the rough wood under his palm.

How long had it taken? A month? Two? No way to tell, but in time he'd started to suspect Atlantis was the place other enough to change him. He'd felt like he'd shed a skin and the sensation predated the incident when he actually did. Shed his skin, that is.

For once, the idea that he mattered to others didn't scare the hell out of him. He could even show that he cared. A little. On occasion.

It wasn't just that, though. Letting your self-control slip was one thing. Giving it up entirely was something else altogether.

John stared at the hall-stand, the crooked rack and row of hooks. A bar of light fell in from the main room and touched the sleeve of a forgotten raincoat. Rodney's jacket hung in the shadows.

There were many reasons for wanting Atlantis back. One of them, John wasn't ready to dissect.

_The sea below, sending up a scent of brine. Moonlit clouds, reflected on the balcony door. _

Damn it all to hell.

Leaving the wall, John returned to the main room. He walked to the sofa, sat down, put his feet on the table, picked up his beer bottle, drank what was left.

Rodney was still buried in his script. Absorbed by some equation or other, he was tapping the marker against his temple. John watched from the corner of his eye.

There wasn't much space between them; the sofa wasn't that big. John could have reached out and touched Rodney, easily. Instead he pulled his report into his lap. Ignoring the tension in his spine. Trying to think it was no big deal, but who was he kidding. Riffling through his report, he stared at the print without reading.

It was no use. He'd run out of distraction.

_The distant sound of waves on the pier. No other noise, not even the wailing of gulls. Sea birds never came this far. _

John closed his eyes. The beer's bitter aftertaste filled his mouth, but couldn't cover the memory of salt on the tip of his tongue. It had been in the air, the whole city seemed saturated with a subtle, saline spray. It had been inside their clothes, too. Showers never took it away completely. In time, he came to crave the taste of saltwater on skin.

_A tiny scar just below the ribcage, almost invisible. He traced the sickle-shaped mark with the side of his thumb. _

The windows had been wide open, he remembered the faint chill of the wind. Outside, the night was cobalt blue and darkening. Next to the bed, a lamp was glowing. Crescents of warm light illuminated in turn the curve of a shoulder, the line of a thigh or side of a face.

_John leaned in closer, chuckled against Rodney's stomach. Rodney's hand was on the nape of his neck, moving up and into his hair. _

They had dropped the pillows on the floor to make room. Rodney's shirt hung from a chair's backrest, the other clothes were god knows where. When he left in the morning, John picked up Rodney's boots by mistake and only noticed when he was back in his quarters.

_They switched, the twisted sheets pressed into John's back. His knee brushed Rodney's side, he reached up. _

Hyped on their latest survival, they had held back nothing. Later, John wondered how he ended up with a bruise on his heel. The next day in the control room, Rodney brushed his shoulder as if by accident.

_Lips on his neck, a hint of teeth, hot breath on his collar-bone. _

He had no idea sensations would keep this long. Even now, there was no sense of fading intensity. He recalled in every detail the small of Rodney's back, warm, tense and sweat-slick under his fingertips.

_Rodney's voice, close to his ear. John closed his eyes. Smiling, he exhaled. _

John realised he'd peeled off half the label on the beer bottle's neck. He stopped at once, rubbed the moist paper shreds furtively off his thumb.

A cramp in his back signalled he'd sat in one place too long. If possible, he was even more uncomfortable than before. The sofa was too goddamn soft. He shifted against the cushions, re-crossed his ankles on the coffee table. He got rid of the compromising bottle, placed it out of reach on the floor.

The memory still lingered. A phantom caress trickled down his skin and made his stomach tighten.

He'd never let himself go like that with anyone before. He'd never been so aware of another person's body. He was wary of touch. All the more scary he should want it so much.

It was the circumstances, he told himself. The elation of evading death time and again ran through his veins and dissolved his boundaries. The times he was with Rodney, John navigated a space as shapeless as the sky. It was like flying without purpose. If freedom was possible at all, that was it.

And now he was back to square one.

True enough. Atlantis had cut him loose and he'd enjoyed it. He would have been happy to burn all of his bridges. Now he was back on the old homestead, back within reach of a history that confined him.

If they grounded him here . . . he didn't know if he could pick up the life he left.

He feared it would happen all too easily.

Already he couldn't look at Rodney without second thoughts. The old hesitation was back, the suspicion of people demanding, expecting him to be . . . what exactly?

Once more John wondered why Rodney joined him out here. In all likelihood, he'd come to check if the fundamental things applied. If so, John had no answers.

Earth complicated everything. Things were different here. He was different. Or wasn't he? Sometimes it sure felt like he was split in two and one half didn't fit the other anymore.

John uncrossed his ankles, propped one foot on the table's edge. To his right, Rodney licked his thumb and turned a page of his script. John looked at the wall and the glass of the sword-case caught their reflections.

There had been moments where he thought he was complete. Those moments didn't belong on Earth anymore than pseudo dates in bars that served tasteless peas.

John dropped his report on the sofa and pulled his feet off the table. Leaving the couch, he crossed the room and stopped in front of the window. It was dark outside, trees and pond invisible. Light from the cabin illuminated a curtain of swirling rain. It looked like another wall outside the window.

John opened the top button of his shirt and scratched his chin. He hadn't shaved all day and was well on his way to full-fledged stubble. So what. It wasn't like anyone would nag about regulations out here. He might as well make the best of his exile; throw in some slacker attitude for good measure. Speaking of which . . .

Walking into the open plan kitchen, John opened the fridge and got himself another beer. He could do with a piece of oblivion right about now.

On the wall next to the fridge he spotted an old calendar. The sheaf on display was November, 1999. Talking about time-freeze. John flashed back to an old Twilight Zone episode that had its hero trapped in a village where time stood still. Literally. Unable to escape, the poor bastard-of-the-week died a lonely death under a motionless clock. Ominous music included.

John looked at the shelves, packed with canned peaches and bottled tomato sauce. If they got stuck outside the time continuum, at least they wouldn't starve. He closed the fridge and tried his beer, only this time it was too cold. He looked at the open bedroom door and the thick darkness within. The rain was drumming on the rooftop like an endless avalanche.

John rubbed his temple, shot another glance out the window, turned around and found himself face-to-face with Rodney.

"What's with you?" Rodney demanded, voice sharp. "Do you have ants in your pants or something?"

John choked. "Excuse me?" He managed to hide his shock pretty well. He hoped.

Rodney crossed his arms. "For the last half hour, you've been hopping around on the couch, shifting left and right, stripping your beer bottle . . ." He narrowed his eyes. "Are you going claustrophobic on me?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"Nothing."

Rodney's look told him exactly what he thought of that answer. John tensed, waiting for the for the inevitable outburst. It never came. Instead, Rodney eyed him with an unreadable expression. Taken aback by the scrutiny, John felt like a rare insect on display. The silence was enough to make him nervous. Reaching behind him, he placed a hand on the sink's edge. Seconds ticked by. At last, Rodney shook his head and stepped closer.

"The social thing would have been to bring me one, too," he said and nodded at the beer. John eyed the open bottle, looked back at Rodney, then offered up his beer. Rodney raised an eyebrow, surprised, maybe. He did take the beer, though, lifted it to his mouth, hesitated, took a sip. John watched him drink, his own mouth going dry. Rodney's eyes never left his and after another second, he moved in until they stood only a few inches apart.

They didn't quite touch for the moment. Even so, heat from Rodney's body seeped through John's clothes like the glow of a furnace. As if to contradict the sudden warmth, a shiver ran down his arms.

Rodney placed a hand on John's hip, thumb sliding under the hem of John's shirt. It seemed like a good time to brace both hands on the edge of the sink. The beer was pushed onto the counter.

They were going slow, but John's breathing sounded harsh to his own ears. He tried to lose the tension, eased up his grip on the sink and closed his eyes for a second. Rodney's hand was cold and left goosebumps in places that should not be that sensitive. John bit the inside of his lip.

Sensation rushing in, prickling under his skin as though his veins had turned into high voltage lines. Charged with anticipation, every touch felt new, untried.

It was the same with flying: Stay on the ground too long and you forgot how it felt. Too much gravity made John doubt that lifting off the ground was even possible. After weeks without a sky, the moment he soared had no comparison.

Rodney started stroking John above the waistband of his jeans. Smooth fingertips, tracing the top of his hip-bone, using little pressure. Using more. Blunt fingernails skimmed sensitised skin as they moved along the hollow of his waist. John felt the hem of his own shirt graze his belly. Folds of fabric, lifted by Rodney's wrist, slid up his side. Cool air on his exposed skin, the sink digging into his back. Rodney brushed the edge of John's ribs and sent liquid heat up his spine.

As John tensed, Rodney moved and braced his free hand on the counter. Pressing his erection against John's thigh, he made a sound halfway between a sigh and a moan. John drew in a sharp breath, inhaling the scent of Rodney's aftershave and the dry-cleaned wool of his pullover.

Pulse picking up another notch, John leaned in. He touched Rodney's mouth, then went on to kiss the side of Rodney's neck. Warm skin, soft beneath a sandpapery jaw - line. God. He'd lied, he'd lied. He had missed this. John reached out and clutched a fistful of Rodney's sleeve.

"Too much energy," Rodney hummed. "Would be a shame to waste it."

John grinned against Rodney's throat and said nothing.

Outside, the storm kept raging.


	2. 2/2

**Two **

  
Rodney woke to an empty bed, as usual. What was more, he also woke up backed against the wall, rough wood scraping against his shoulders. With a quiet groan, he turned his face into the crook of his arm and closed his eyes. Once, just once, he wanted to share a bed wide enough to accommodate his aching back and John's sharp elbows.

Breathing the scent of fresh bedding, Rodney listened to the sound of rain bouncing off the windowsill. By now the tinny patter had lost some of its ferocity.

He opened his eyes and looked at the deserted side of the mattress. John's pillow was a wrinkled mess on the sheets; raindrop shadows speckled the linen. The moon must have broken through the clouds as the room was washed in blue twilight. It had to be way past midnight.

When did they reach the bed? Around ten? Possibly. Rodney had left his wristwatch in the kitchen. He'd dropped most of his clothes there, too. At least he thought he did. After that first hand job it was all a blur.

They did stumble into bed, eventually. That much he recalled. John wanted to open the window; Rodney had called him crazy and promised he'd snip off John's wristband if he so much as neared the ledge. They compromised on five minutes of fresh air. After that, John had pulled the cover over them both and they'd fallen asleep. Or so Rodney had thought.

He shifted to the middle of the bed and turned on his back. He had to admit, he was a bit put off by John's behaviour. There was hardly a reason to keep up the stealth in this place. It wasn't like someone would knock on their door, for Christ's sake.

_Although_, Rodney wondered. Perhaps he'd got it wrong all along. He'd always assumed John left to keep their encounters a secret. Now it occurred to him that John left every night because he wanted to. It was possible.

Or, option number two, he was overreacting. John probably just wanted a bed for himself. Enough room to sleep without fearing to fall off. If so, Rodney couldn't blame him.

He tried to settle back down but found he wasn't sleepy anymore. He closed his eyes . . . nope. Not tired. Rodney put an arm behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.

The first night, his bedroom had smelt like a cedar chest. Now there was a trace of musk that mingled into the redolence of logs and oakum. Rodney assumed it clung to his skin, too. He did feel a bit sticky. Come morning, the blanket would be glued to his thighs and chest. Not a pleasant prospect.

What the hell. He was already up, he might as well take a shower. On the way he could make up for the dinner they'd missed. When he planned this trip, he had hoped the seclusion would be bearable as long as there was enough food and sex going round. So far, he hadn't been wrong.

Rodney mouth twisted into a hard smile as he suppressed a snort.

The moment he heard of John's compulsory leave, Rodney had decided to join him. He stuffed a random stack of clothes into a bag, rented a car and emptied half a supermarket on his way into the hills. He'd given into an impulse there, but was determined to follow his instincts on this one. He had the notion that if he didn't watch out, John would be transferred fast and discrete. The military could send him to an outpost in the Gobi desert and he'd be gone before any of his friends knew what was happening. Somehow Rodney doubted John would leave a forwarding address.

The bitterness was surprising. It wasn't like they'd made any promises and why should they? Commitment wouldn't sit right with either of them. Rodney had no illusions about himself; he knew he could only adapt so much. If they transferred John, would he give up the Pegasus Project to follow him? Hardly.

All the same, there was no reason to break up before they had to. They were good together.

If they were together.

Which was no longer a given.

Throughout the last weeks John had kept Rodney at arm's length. His idea of staying in contact was fly-by visits and the odd call. For want of a better strategy, Rodney had followed suit. It didn't mean he was fine with the enforced asceticism. In fact, he loathed it.

He got used to having John around. Not so much because of the sex, not entirely, or, well. If he was honest with himself, he'd appreciated the ease of their friendship.

John fit the places Rodney had thought incompatible with any other human being. More odd still, John liked Rodney's company. He used to come to the lab for no reason, bringing coffee or chocolate. Most of the time he would just hang out, flipping through the Ancient data base or his copy of War and Peace.

And now he made himself scarce. In truth, it was irritating. It was just John's way of dealing with the loss of Atlantis, Rodney got that, but still, he had assumed . . . he didn't know what.

He wasn't stupid enough to expect they would jump each other's bones under the nose of the US Airforce. He was, however, honest enough to admit that he missed it. Them. He long-since decided that unresolved sexual tension was a waste of time and energy. As a rule, he didn't do repressed desires.

So much for his philosophy.

Rodney lifted a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Life in general was a deal more complex with John in the picture. It had nothing to do with him being male or military, it was just that John was, well, _John_. Three years they knew each other and Rodney could count on one hand the times John volunteered any information on his private thoughts. Very rarely did he verge on saying that he might perhaps actually somehow want something. He had this weird belief in discretion that only wavered when he was taken off guard.

Then again, John was quite eloquent in ways other than speaking.

There was nothing laid-back in the way John moved when they were alone. Every last motion of his body was an act of abandon and need. In the end, his touch was more explicit than any words. So Rodney made it his business to learn the vocabulary of John's hands. He, who never had any patience for intuition whatsoever.

Rodney pulled John's pillow onto his stomach and crossed his arms on top.

The thing was, he didn't mind, not really. If he did, he wouldn't bother. It wasn't so bad, though, accepting John's little flaws. It didn't even feel like he went out of his way.

Except for this cabin operation which was light years out of Rodney's way and civilisation in general.

Driving into the middle of nowhere, not knowing what kind of welcome he would get. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Still did. At least John didn't seem to mind. Although why he had agreed to stay in this backwater wood shack was beyond Rodney. He liked to believe that if he were to go into exile, he'd do so with style.

On that note . . .

Rodney peeled the blanket off his chest and lowered his feet to the floor. He pulled on a pair of jersey pants, then walked to the door, smoothing down his hair as he went.

Once he was out of the bedroom, he tried to remember the location of the light switch. After a good deal of groping he found it on the left side of the wall. He flipped the switch twice, but nothing happened.

Whatever people said, it was boring to be right all the time.

Rodney squinted into the main room, trying to make out shapes from the darkness. A shaft of moonlight from the window struck a corner of the carpet and glazed the sideboard. Slowly, Rodney's eyes got used to the half-light. He was sorting out the outlines of couch and fireplace, when one piece of furniture suddenly moved.

"Rodney?"

Jerking back with a start, Rodney bumped his elbow on the doorjamb. "Jesus Chri – ow!" He hit right on the tender spot too, pain flaring up his arm and into his shoulder. "Crap, ow, ow!"

Next to the couch, John stepped out of the shadows and into the moon's feeble radiance. "You okay?"

"You gave me a heart attack!"

"Sorry."

Rodney clutched his elbow, moved away from the door and almost stumbled into a cedar beam. He clenched his teeth to keep further expletives in check. "What's with the lights?" he demanded, mainly to distract John from the spectacle that was Rodney in pain.

"Power's out," John answered.

"Did you check the fuses?"

"Yeah, they're okay. Storm must have brought down the lines."

"Beautiful." Rodney rubbed his arm, then rolled his shoulder. "Is there a flashlight around?"

By way of an answer, John lifted a MagLite and switched it on. The bulb flickered, waned and went black. "I don't suppose you have any AA batteries on you?" John asked.

Rodney snorted. Like his equipment was that antiquated. AA Batteries. Honestly. "No."

John shrugged. "Didn't think so."

"The General's got to have spares somewhere," Rodney pointed out.

"Yeah," John agreed, looking doubtfully around the room.

"Well," Rodney said, "so, we better have a look."

John started out in the kitchen, Rodney walked to the chest of drawers next to the hearth. He barely avoided stubbing his toe on the fireplace's stone frame. Great. Just the way he wanted to spend the night. He didn't understand why people chose cabins for getaways in the first place.

_Don't miss the opportunity to indulge yourself in relaxation and serenity. Share the adventure of random power-cuts and listen to the harmonic skitter of bugs inside the walls. _

Rodney reached the cabinet and began feeling his way through dark drawers. The first compartment yielded boxes full of fishing hooks, the second seemed stuffed with magazines, the third held some oily cloth Rodney didn't want to analyse. He gave up. Behind his back, he could hear John clattering through the kitchen cupboards.

This was useless. They just would have to wait until morning. Rodney turned around and his gaze fell on the coffee table. Now that his eyes had grown used to the semi gloom, he recognised a mug, a couple of books and . . . a yoghurt cup? Rodney frowned. This wasn't how they had left the place. A blanket lay crumpled in one corner of the sofa and another paperback waited on the armrest. More books were spread on the floor; one lay pages down in a patch of moonlight. It seemed like John had returned to the living area and emptied O'Neill's bookcase to pass time. In the middle of the night?

"What's this?" Rodney called and turned around. "Did you get in touch with your inner insomniac?"

At the far side of the room, John had been digging through the shelves under the sink. The moment Rodney's question was out, he froze. One beat of silent tension, and Rodney knew he should've kept his mouth shut.

"No batteries over here," John said finally and straightened.

Rodney took a breath, then thought better of it. One day he needed to accept that he was stuck with foot-in-mouth disease for life. He watched as John reached for a little box on top of the fridge. As the clouds moved outside, the room's shadow-patterns shifted.

Rodney wondered what kind of sore spot he'd touched just then. 'Insomniac' was hardly an insult. Besides, he had called John worse. Granted, late night wandering wasn't usually a teasing topic between them.

If Rodney envied one of John's skills, it was his ability to fall asleep whenever he wanted. Given the chance, John just rested his head on a pillow or bunk or bedroll and off he was, snoring faintly. He was like a cat that way. As far as Rodney could tell, going to sleep had never troubled John on Atlantis.

Oh.

_Oh. _

Perceptiveness. He never quite mastered that art. He'd been told before, but it always surprised him anyway. For a genius, he had a remarkable talent for missing the point.

Rodney picked up the book from the armrest and sidled into kitchen. He raked his brain for harmless words, sensing he walked earthquake ground. Before he came up with anything, John turned and showed him the box. The contents gave out a metallic rattle. The twilight was brighter this close to the window and made it possible to recognise --

"Crown caps," Rodney said, perplexed. "Why would anyone . . .?"

John shrugged. "Beats me." Rodney watched him return the card box to its place on the fridge. The peace was fragile, didn't feel real somehow. Rodney was at a loss while John retreated into himself and out of reach. To avoid another awkward silence, Rodney turned the book's cover into the moonlight.

"_Origami in eight easy steps_," he read. "Is this the cream of the General's library?"

"He's got some mysteries," John said and leaned against the counter. "There's one book on Egyptian vase designs."

"Huh. Weird."

"Probably one of Dr. Jackson's."

"Probably."

John looked out the window and the play of light and shadow changed subtly on his face. One hand rested on the counter; thumb toying with a bit of splintery wood.

Just for once, Rodney wanted to look inside John's head, see his thoughts instead of guessing them. Something made him nervous, something more than the absence from Atlantis. What was it? The threat of reassignment. The lack of purpose. The strain and implication of being alone with Rodney for too long. Maybe that was it. Maybe they didn't work without the threat of potential death in the mix.

It was possible. Rodney didn't like the idea, but it made sense. Sense enough so he didn't know what to do about it.

He wondered what the problem was: seeing too little of each other, or too much.

"So," Rodney ventured. "Are we going back to bed?"

"You go ahead," John said. "I'll join you later."

"I could stay up if you want company."

"Nah, likely I'll just read some more."

Rodney held up the how-to book. "Of this?"

John smirked. "Might as well."

It was hopeless. Rocks under a vow of silence would be more responsive.

John pushed free off the counter, moved around Rodney and headed for the couch. He reached around for the back of his shirt and tugged it down.

"How?" Rodney asked.

John half-turned his head. "What?"

"How will you read?"

"Oh, yeah," John said. "What do you know, maybe I'll meditate."

Rodney gave up. Like the batteries, this was an issue better to be handled in daylight.

If it had to be handled. Most likely, tonight's incident fell under the usual non quiescent. John could be homesick, or keyed up, or whatnot, but he would never explain and Rodney wouldn't ask. Tomorrow, things would calm down and this would just be a moment when they could have crossed a line and hadn't.

Nothing new there. So why did it suddenly bother him?

They were out of sync, that's why. The way things were going, Rodney would just have to accept it. Perhaps there was no need for John to be reassigned, because he was already gone anyway.

It had been easier on Atlantis. Rodney didn't know why, but it was true. For one, they didn't have to tip-toe around each other. Not this much, anyway. There had been a sense of assurance they no longer shared.

For Christ's sake.

Rodney rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, struggling with useless nostalgia.

The way he was going on, you would think Atlantis was the Promised Land. It wasn't. It was living on rations, working under pressure, waiting for the next doom to come crashing down. He would be insane to miss that.

Like they said, the line between insanity and brilliance was thin.

Rodney turned for the bedroom, discarding his plan to take a shower. He had no desire to cram himself into a dark bathroom. Before he left the kitchen, Rodney looked back over his shoulder. John had vanished behind the sofa's backrest. Outside, the clouds had to be moving again. The moon's glow dimmed from the room and the rain returned, hesitant patter on the roof growing faster.

"Good night, then," Rodney said.

"Watch out for that doorframe," John answered, voice disembodied in the dark.

  
* * *

  
He dozed off and slipped into a fitful half-sleep. Dream fragments mixed with a stream of thoughts. It wasn't long before he snapped wide-awake again.

Eyes hurting from lack of sleep, Rodney lay there for another minute before rolling out of bed. He rummaged through his duffle bag, found a t-shirt and socks, dressed. Not bothering to try the lights, he stepped out into the kitchen.

At first glance, the cabin looked like before. Still Rodney couldn't shake the feeling that something was different. Then it dawned on him: The kitchen door was open. A ray  
of pale light spilled past the counter and spread on the floorboards. As if on cue, his body noticed the drop of temperature and the chill sent goosebumps up his arms. With growing apprehension, Rodney walked around the counter.

John sat against the doorjamb, arms resting on his knees. Like Rodney, he wore sweat pants and a t-shirt. His feet were bare, though. The mug stood next to him on the floor.

Rodney hesitated, then went down on one knee. He touched John's shin, but even then, there was no reaction.

"Hey," Rodney said and swallowed around his sleep-fogged voice. "Are you okay?" No answer. "John?"

At last John turned his head a little. In the gloom it was hard to make out his features, but his eyes were open and moon-silvered.

"This place is crap," John said softly.

The words cleared stony pressure off Rodney's chest. He curled one corner of his mouth into a smile. "Tell me something I don't know." He sat down, wrapped a hand around his ankle. This close, he could smell a smoky sweetness on John's breath. Not much, just enough so Rodney knew it wasn't coffee in the mug.

The rain-washed air made the hair on his nape rise. He was amazed that John didn't shiver all over. Wasn't he the one who hated the cold?

"Never liked to stay inside this long," John said. "Can't smell the sky."

"Smell the sky?" Rodney repeated.

"Yeah." John tipped his head back, eyes half closed, watching Rodney, who stared back with a frown.

He hadn't the first clue how a sky should smell. Plane exhaust sprang to mind, but he was fairly sure that wasn't the idea. He looked to the side, taking in the bulky furniture and thick shadows. He figured that this room didn't smell anything like what John wanted, either.

With this, Rodney's awareness of the cabin changed. Suddenly the room's scents seemed heavy and obtrusive. Dust in the carpet, resin, soot from the chimney, even the wet kitchen towels. Earth smells, ground smells. Crowding in from all sides. No wonder John felt trapped.

The anger was sudden, unexpected and intense. Anger at the Ancients for throwing them out, anger at the SGC, for dumping John here. For putting him out of place.

Most of all Rodney realised he was fed up with John retreating and himself doing nothing to stop him. Living like refugees, half ashamed of seeking each other's company. Or so it felt.

Why should he put up with this? He was sick of complications, the way they avoided each other so they wouldn't break taboos they had never defined.

Rodney rose from the floor, walked over to the couch and picked up the blanket. He looked around, found another quilt on the easy chair. He wedged a pillow under his arm and returned to John.

"Get up," Rodney told him. "Come on, grab a pillow." He didn't wait for John to move, but walked out the door ahead of him. Clutching the quilts to his chest, he walked around the lodge to the front porch.

The planks were rough against his socks and the night's damp cold slipped into his clothes. Water dripped from the roof's overhang, but the veranda was dry.

Rodney dropped one of the blankets on a deck chair, took the other with him, sat down on the second chair. John had followed and was leaning on a veranda post. He watched Rodney in silence; impossible to tell what he thought.

"Do you need an invitation?" Rodney snapped, determined not to feel self-conscious. The idea was simple. John was uncomfortable inside, ergo, they moved outside. It was only reasonable. In a brainless, ludicrous, demented way.

Rodney avoided John's gaze, telling himself he didn't act stupid. He didn't. He wasn't the one who got drunk by himself and read instructions to Japanese paper art. He shoved the pillow under the small of his back like it proved something.

John moved, but didn't go to the second chair. Instead he walked to Rodney and sat down between his feet. He held out his pillow, face concealed in shadow. Rodney took the pillow, because that seemed to be required.

"Okay?" John asked.

"Yeah," Rodney answered carefully, said "Sure" even though he wasn't sure at all what John had in mind. Rigid with apprehension, he waited to see what would happen.

John turned, moved between Rodney's parted knees until they sat back to chest. He put his feet on the deck chair; Rodney pushed closer to the backrest to make room. He tucked the pillow behind his head. John leaned back, but the angle was awkward and his elbows got in the way. They shifted, found a position that worked.

John was bony, all hard angles and shoulder blades. Still he managed to mould himself against Rodney like an affectionate, oversized tomcat.

It was confusing. Rodney half expected a replay of the kitchen counter scene, but John made no move that way. He simply settled back, relaxed. Resting his head on Rodney's shoulder, he seemed content just to lie there.

Rodney's cock filed a mild interest at John's proximity, but nothing more. The coil of tension in his chest dissolved, leaving a curious warmth in its place.

When John had pulled up his legs, Rodney arranged the quilt around them. Under the cover, he moved his arm until his hand lay flat against John's midriff. After a second's hesitation, he tucked his hand under John's shirt. Palm on skin, he could feel John breathing, belly rising and falling, body warming against the inside of his arm.

John wrapped one of his hands loosely around Rodney's thigh, moved his head. Rodney felt the warmth of his own breath against John's whiskers. The tip of John's ear was close to his mouth; close enough to kiss, should he want that.

Holding the quilt in place, Rodney felt a torn seam and a tuft of stuffing. He peered past John's head and watched the clearing in its wavy white underwater glow.

At this point, the rain was almost invisible. There was a noise like wind going through poplar leaves. Shreds of fog coiled over the ground, the air smelt of wet meadow and soil. There was John's scent, too, a ghost of soap and single malt. His hair was silky cold against Rodney's face. He must've sat by the door a long time, fooled by false liquor warmth, because his bare arms were covered in gooseflesh. Rodney pulled the quilt tighter around them, closed his eyes and listened to the night sounds.

  
* * *

  
The store was attached to a garage on the edge of town. It might have been a small business once, but the trickle of tourism had it overflowing with cigarette ads and postcards. The order of goods wasn't easy to sort out. Cans of paint stood next to boxes of oatmeal, toothbrushes were stacked on a pile of napkins. There were shells of various calibres. Fishing rods. Working gloves. Jars of home-made honey.

Cheap souvenirs cluttered one corner and the row of random stock continued. Key fobs. Alarm clocks with the town house printed on the clock face. Snow domes holding a circle of Play-Doh stick deer with pumpkin sized heads.

Rodney took one off the shelf, turned it around and made a face. People paid money for this? He put the snow dome back, turned around and appraised the rest of the store with a sigh. Never in his life had he seen so much junk in one place. He pried his gaze away from the huge plastic trout that was tacked to the cash desk.

Down the aisle, John was inspecting a stack of chequered hunting caps. He wore a hooded sweater, dark red with a pouch in front. He'd put on jeans and boots and generally looked like an off-season person. His face was calm, mouth pinched in mild amusement.

Watching, Rodney felt a sudden clutch of affection. It made him smile, realising he could watch. Knowing John wouldn't mind if he caught him looking.

Something had clicked into place last night. Whatever it was, it seemed to put John at ease and it put Rodney in a strangely good mood.

Power was back up in the morning, but they drove into town all the same. A supply of batteries wouldn't hurt. Rodney wanted to buy a cooler, so they could save the food should the fridge opt out indefinitely. So far the store had offered a mass of nonsense, but, ultimately, no cooler.

At least the place was stocked with prehistoric power sources.

Rodney spotted the batteries between the pickled cauliflower and the handkerchiefs. He picked a set and joined John at the end of the aisle.

While Rodney had searched the shelves, John had moved on to a rack full of paperbacks. Coming closer, Rodney discerned lurid covers with swooning women and bare chested men. John held one of them up with a grin. "Think Elizabeth would like one of these?"

"You try and give it to her," Rodney suggested.

The old guy that tended the store rose from his chair as they approached the till. Faded hiking maps were spread on the counter, the old man's coffee mug perched on a newspaper.

"You're not passing through, are you?" he asked as he cashed their shopping. "Where you staying?"

"Silver Creeks," Rodney answered and pulled his wallet from his jeans.

"The General's cabin, eh?" the oldtimer said. "You're into fishing?"

Rodney was about to let loose a comment about nosy small-town folk, but John was faster and said no.

"Good thing," the old man said. "Ain't no fish in that pond. Never were. Told the General, too, but he doesn't believe me. "

Rodney watched him count the bills into the till one by one. Amazing how long it could take to sort in three dollars and fifty cents.

"Brought a friend of his only last month," the old man continued. "Scholarly fellow with glasses. If he caught a fish in his life, it sure didn't happen up there." He handed Rodney the change. One corner of his mouth crimped into what could be a smile. "Only fish that come up there are sliced and frozen."

He stuffed the batteries into a paper bag, pushed them across the counter. Returned to his coffee and newspaper. Transaction, and gossip, completed. Rodney suppressed a snort.

Outside, the cracked pavement was covered with an oily sheen of water. It had stopped raining, but the sky's colour suggested it was only a temporary relief. The clouds looked heavy and low enough to touch the top of the pines.

John grinned when they left the store. They crossed the parking lot, passed a yellow dustbin, reached the car and still John was smirking.

"I won't say it," Rodney declared, but he thought of the book on Egyptian vase designs.

No fish.

Perhaps the old man had misread the cabin's purpose.

Rodney tossed John the keys. They climbed into the car and John steered them out of the parking lot.

  
* * *

  
On the fourth day, the weather reached monsoon enormity. Raindrops pelted the Sedan's roof and swamped the tire tracks. The driveway was slick and squelchy. The porch steps ended in a brown puddle. Water tapped against the windows like endless telegraphs.

"I don't believe this," Rodney complained. "There'll be moss growing on my laptop."

"Any signs of webbed fingers yet?" John asked around a spoon-full of cereal.

"Hardy ha ha," Rodney grumbled and helped himself to another piece of toast. News feeds were running on the computer screen, but the sound was turned off. Instead they were listening to a Jimi Hendrix album, one of the three CDs John had brought along with him. By now, Rodney knew the lyrics to Red House by heart.

They had tried Battleships. They had watched the new Star Wars trilogy because things couldn't get any worse. They found out they had no talent for Origami.

Neither of them had brought much stuff, but still they managed to strew their belongings all over the place. John's red sweatshirt was flung over the sofa's backrest. Rodney's notes buried the easy chair. Paper turtles that ought to be birds cluttered the couch table.

Last evening had wound down with Rodney flicking through Jonas Quinn's theorem on quantum physics, then got interesting when John walked out of the shower with nothing but a towel around his waist.

Rodney couldn't tell when he had stopped waiting for a recall.

  
* * *

  
When Saturday came around, the state of their clothes was fast approaching biohazard level. After breakfast, they stuffed all they had into Rodney's duffel and drove twenty kilometres to the nearest laundry.

They arrived around midday, so both the street and the shop were as good as deserted. After a woman left with a sack of bedding and a noisy toddler, John and Rodney were the only customers. Two machines besides their own spun laundry, filling the room with a thumping buzz. Someone had left a box of detergent.

Rodney sat in one of the plastic chairs, arms wrapped comfortably around his torso. Beside him, John was absorbed in one of the General's crime novels. He slouched in his chair, legs tilted wide so that his knee touched Rodney's.

Rodney laid his head back and looked up at the flaking grey ceiling. Squinting back over his shoulder and through the shop's glass front, he saw a woman walk by, closed umbrella clutched in her fist. For once, it was dry.

The downpour had let up in the morning and then stopped entirely around noon. Even the cloud cover seemed less dark, less sagging. Puddles on the tarmac reflected a smooth grey sky. Soaked leaves were plastered to the sidewalks.

Traffic was limited to the odd car and a few walkers. Across the street, Rodney spotted a stake house behind a plane tree. The place had a nice façade, chocolate brown, like an old English pub. Rodney looked at the distant menu board and decided to take John for dinner. It would be good, eating at a place where the food didn't originate from tin cans.

It would be their second stab at eating together in public. Rodney had the distinct feeling it would work better this time.

He was about to broach the subject, when a high-pitched buzz broke through the muffled sound of twirling shirts and underwear.

John reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his cell phone. Lifted it to his ear, said "Sheppard", listened.

Rodney watched him, half aware that the muscles in his arms had drawn taut. John's frown told him who was calling, but not what was said. Rodney clutched his ribcage and waited.

This was it, then. The final decision. Rodney had a sudden sense of vertigo as too many thoughts struggled to the top.

What if they had already replaced John with another CO? How would Atlantis be like without . . . no. They wouldn't. Of course they wouldn't. Not after everything John had done for the city.

But the doubt stayed.

Rodney clenched his jaw. God, he hated waiting. If John would give a sign . . . or better not. Rodney tried to steel himself, but his effort only earned him another absurd thought. He suddenly realised their stay at the cabin was over. As if that idea wasn't random enough, he also felt a twinge of regret.

Which was, of course, stupid. O'Neill's place was a nightmare. You couldn't leave the lodge without sinking ankle-deep into mud. The lights flickered. He should be glad to see the last of it.

The fact that he wasn't made him pause.

He wanted to return to Atlantis. Of course he wanted to get back to his work. He knew John wanted the same, too. And yet . . . was it possible they had discovered an alternative?

Rodney thought they might have.

It was comforting to know that should things turn out differently one day, peace could work for them, too. They could find a place to be content with each other. Possibly.

It wasn't a bad prospect at all.

However, that should be the future. The far, far future. For now, he damn well wanted them both back on Atlantis.

Rodney looked at the row of washing machines, the spilled laundry soap and felt the pressure of John's knee against his thigh. He had moved closer, more of his leg touching Rodney like he sought the connection. It was calming. Rodney loosened the tight grip around his chest, exhaled.

After what seemed a long time, John switched off his cell phone and put it back in his pocket. He turned his head, looked at Rodney. One corner of his mouth curved into something close to a smile.

"How would you like us to build a stardrive?"

  


_

End

_   
_ _________________   
_ 15/01/07_   
  
_ Beta by **auburnnothenna**, **enname** &amp; **eretria**, _   
_ who teamed up for a tremendous job. Thank you!_


End file.
